


this language is inadequate

by LucentPetrichor



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1000 odd words of fluff, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, consider yourself warned, i have like 4 bloody drabble fics on the go and it's all les amis' fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucentPetrichor/pseuds/LucentPetrichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac doesn't do poetry; he doesn't do words and metaphors and meanings wrapped up in syntax. He works in gesures and bodies and that's a poetry of a whole different kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this language is inadequate

**Author's Note:**

> This started, as most of my work does, as an old [tag fic](http://utterlydeceptivetwaddlespeak.tumblr.com/post/42228689723/blankslate-i-tried-to-write-about-your-eyes-but) . And then it wouldn't leave me alone.

It’s Friday and it’s the Friday before a week off. So thank fucking god because the week had been absolutely manic. The weather had been particularly brutal for early summer and it had been storming non-stop for the past two weeks, four o’clock on the dot, so pretty much every day ended in floods of soggy students traipsing into the café d’abc, exhausted from the day and looking for a caffeine fix. Les Amis’ resident Geography student in the form of Bahorel refused to shut up about high pressure and low pressure and waxing lyrical over storm clouds, but the majority of their little group seemed thoroughly fed up with the heavy, muggy air that clung to every surface and made it feel like walking through pea soup in the mornings.

But finally, _finally_ , the end of the week had arrived and all anyone could think of doing was dragging themselves over to the café and just flop. ‘Chetta had made the decision to close up early on the grounds that “I refuse to end my shift at the end of the day mopping up after dripping students because they can’t be asked to wipe their dumb ironic Doc Martens. Not this Friday.” The best part about this decision was that it didn’t even affect the small coffee shop’s profit margin so the powers that be were more or less fine with the decision; students + wet weather = customers wanting hot drinks. Win win situation all ‘round. Apart from when there was mopping to be done, in which case the win seemed a bit hollow.

Bossuet was just turning the “please come in/fuck off, we’re closed” sign over when the first dregs of the group started sloping down the hill towards the café. Courfeyrac hammered on the glass, his coat held above his head umbrella-esque to cover both him and Jehan crouching under it as the heavens started to open, “Open up, I don’t think my coat was made to be made into an umbrella!”  
Jehan nodded vigorously at the sentiment and practically leapt into the room when Bossuet opened it. ‘Chetta paused in her chair stacking from where she was upstairs to get swept up in the typically exuberant trademark Jehan hug as he bounded up the stairs, before returning to clearing the floor, and moving the chairs to the sides of the room. Bossuet had returned to locking up the till downstairs.

Courfeyrac dropped his rucksack down on the large low hanging windowsill that jutted out from the staircase and started pushing tables against the wall, helping to create a large space in the middle of the room. Not for the first time, he reflected on just how _fucking awesome_ this place was, from the horrifically punny name down to the bookshelves stuffed full of gods only knew what.

By the time most of their number had arrived, the upstairs room was near unrecognisable, having been turned into what Feuilly very eloquently described as an “über-nest”, with beanbags and cushions strewn everywhere. Cosette was in charge of duvets by dint of owning a vehicle with an actual roof and space to store things  

*

The sky was starting to darken when Grantaire and Enjolras finally rocked up, both looking haggard and exhausted. But the tension that had been trailing Enjolras all week and making his neck go all cordy (and Joly panic about blood pressure, by extension) had dissipated which can only mean things came to a head earlier that day. The first clue Combeferre had of this when he was toed out of his beanbag to answer the door wasn’t the lack of cordy neck tendons, it was the fact that Grantaire’s got one of Enjolras’ multiple red beanies jammed over his dark curls, and Enjolras had a very green scarf wound ‘round his neck. The second clue came from the questioning look he shot at Enjolras and the very brief answering nod.

There must have been a quick text sent upstairs because as soon as Enjolras and Grantaire walked through the door there was a flurry of movement to pocket notes and coins as fast as possible. Grantaire went to flop next to Eponine who promptly stole his hat and then reclined on him, proffering a flask of probably slightly spiked hot chocolate as recompense for turning him into a pillow.  
Enjolras nodded to the room at large with a smile, then dragged a large beanbag to lean against Grantaire’s leg and opened his laptop to catch up on whatever had happened in the world while he had been in lectures. Joly mouthed at Grantaire from where he was curled into an intricate threeway knot with Bossuet and ‘Chetta’s fingers tangled in his hair, “Painting?” Ah, so Combeferre had told them. It was the stupidest thing; they had disagreed over a _painting_. Grantaire nodded back to Joly and then spent a few moments reflecting on something Feuilly had said a while back; that “those two argue so much, it’s weird when there’s a day they haven’t. It’s like normal speech is alien to them...” It was true, he supposed. He and Enjolras communicated through sharp words and then soft whispered ones and touches, constant constant touches. Fingers dragged over exposed slivers of skin, shoulders touching, curling into each other... They understood those touches more than anything else, more than anyone else would. He shrugged mentally and brushed his knuckles over the nape of Enjolras’ neck, fondly.

On the other side of the room, Jehan was wielding his trusty Sharpie with gusto and everyone near him had at least one line of poetry written in his loopy script on some poor unsuspecting exposed body part. But it’s Courfeyrac he saves Yeats for. Yeats is Sexy Poetry and yes, the capital letters are paramount. Of course, Courfeyrac gets other things written on him but no one else gets Yeats ever. So this time, he had “I lift the glass to my mouth/I look at you and sigh” scrawled on his foot – the slightly hollow part on the inside, behind the bony ankle bit that he can’t be arsed to ask Joly the name of. Jehan finished writing with an over-elaborate curlicue and a slight flourish, and released Courfeyrac’s foot, and leant back against his boyfriend’s legs craning his head sideways to smile slightly crookedly. Courfeyrac shifted a bit, curling his leg up and round Jehan’s so he can inspect the line scribbled in purple ink and leant forward to press his mouth to Jehan’s; soft and sweet and slow, quietly slipping the pen away and then rucking up Jehan’s shirt. He’s been lying across Courfeyrac making a T-shape, and he was starting to lose sensation in his legs slightly, but who cared.

Bahorel wolf whistled loudly at the sight and got a poke to the ribs for his trouble. Courfeyrac paused for a moment, pen poised over Jehan’s stupidly flat stomach to think before marking him in indelible ink and then remembering something he’d read so long ago he’d thought he’d forgotten it. The cold of the pen on his stomach makes Jehan squirm a little and he poked at Courfeyrac’s leg as words are formed on his skin.

_i tried to write about your eyes  
but i ran out of clichés_

_i tried to say plainly  
but there wasn’t enough truth_

_whoever invented this language  
didn’t anticipate you_

Courfeyrac wrapped the text sideways and slanty around Jehan’s body so the last stanza ended up slightly wobbly over his sharp hipbones. He took a look at his work, daubed in messy writing and bright purple ink. Jehan sat up, twisting awkwardly to read and there’s a slight gasp as he got to the last two lines. He looked up and his eyes were ringed with fire as they met Courfeyrac’s. And all Courfeyrac could think was how damn fucking lucky he had to be to have this. They’re all messily stitched together from a shared goal and then something beyond that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Abi](http://dannyboy-to-thedoctor.tumblr.com) as always for beta'ing and general existing, and to [Dusky](http://duskjolras.tumblr.com) for help with the ending.


End file.
